TW FOR MENTIONS OF SUICIDE
Maybe I wanted to die. Wanted to die for real. Collapsed on the dorm room floor. The jar of pills rolling from the edge of my desk and scattering across the floor like candy. In what would’ve been my last moments, regret would’ve filled my body like the pills filled my stomach. Like cement. In those last moments, I would’ve had the will to live but not the strength to pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1.
Luckily, I had both. Coming back from the edge and learning to see again.
That’s how depression works. It’s much like blindness. For it’s not darkness you feel even in your darkest moments, it’s nothingness. As huge and heavy as the entire ocean in your chest, and as silent and empty as a room with only a whirring fan at its center.
It’s soft and quiet and filling and hypothesizing. It’s exhausting like nothing else you’ve ever felt. And before you know it it’s got you and all you want to do is close your eyes and die.
And eventually, you might try. And it will be up to you in that moment to decide whether you really want it. And you will either pick up the phone and call for help or you won’t. That will be up to you, and I hope you make the choice. It will either be the last decision you make or the first one on the path of change. That’s your call, quite literally.
Don’t give up if you can help it. Because somewhere, someone or something is going to teach you how to swim in that ocean that fills your body. And if you want it, you’re going to get better.